Park Hill Son
By: Johnny Levy
My wife sometimes Jokes that she Wants me to be a Bit more polished. Maybe wear capris Like rich Italian guys. Or maybe like a scarf Or something. And I say what I always say. I’m from Park Hill. I mean, I’ve made My concessions. I mostly wear clothes That fit. Collars, Even. The occasional Bright colors instead of Navy blue and gray. Oh, and I drive a minivan. The list goes on. But there are limits. I’d be lying if I said Park Hill isn’t down There, a hard edged Jaw line, eyeing my Softness and shaking His head. In Park Hill, we Are not soft. We Learn that. In Park Hill, we wear Baggie jeans and Hoodies. We don’t make eye Contact, unless we Are ready to fight. Park Hill gives us Nicknames like Rusty razor blades. Mine were: Piss skin. Halfbreed. Nobody. Punk-ass. Chicken. Menace. I was a gangly, Fearful, punk-ass kid. Park Hill did not approve. Soft wasn’t the currency In my neighborhood. The popular kids Were the kids who could Punch faces bloody And cuss, and tell Filthy jokes on the bus. Not scared of everything, Like me. Park Hill favors The strong and Snacks on the weak. I want you to smell it: Gray air and cracked streets. The liquor store sleeps During the day. Hunkered down, Wrapped in the Tart smell of urine. I want you to taste it: The delightful burst of Sour Apple Laffy Taffy In our mouths That we bought with Food stamps That my homey’s cousin Would give to us To buy candy and bring Him the change. When you are a drug Dealer, and clients pay You with food stamps, This is how you Liquidate your Assets. In Park Hill, my reflection Was alleyways and Liquor store and Barber shop and Broken fences And bullies. I learned myself. Nothing and nobody. Never gonna be Anybody. I remember when I gave in. I tried to be a menace. I was pretty bad at it. But I gave it a shot. Hung out with guys Who thought violence Was funny. I was in the car When crazy E Leaned out the window And threw a heavy Traffic cone at a lady Standing at a bus stop As we drove by. She crumpled. And we didn’t even know her. And that was the point. We burnt rubber Laughing. I was half laughing. This outfit didn’t fit me And I knew it. But it felt good to give in. With others who had given in. Like a brotherhood. We never asked, Why do we do this? Why do we surrender As an act of war? Why do I take the label That you etched on my face With a knife And get revenge By taking your knife And cutting it into My heart? We don’t like the story, So we write fiction Right on top of it. Go ahead and take it. I didn’t want it anyway. Go ahead and kill me. I wanted to die anyway. Smiling as the tears Fall down our faces. Park Hill, I don’t Think about you much. With your streets Cracked as lips. You are a jumble of White mom and Black dad and piss skin And liquor store and Bloods and crips, Video games at The corner store, Comic books. Park Hill, you Stole my bike Like it was a hobby. You gave me my Best friend. We would draw Comic book characters Together for hours And hours. D, my blood, I never told you I loved you. I didn’t Know. We didn’t talk Like that. My own blood. My family. When I left Park Hill, I never looked back. I didn’t know how to Hold it all. You remember how We used to whoop Those dudes on Street Fighter 2 At the arcade? We had them donating Quarters, bro. Remember that apple Cobbler at the food court At the Tabor Center? Closest we ever got To heaven, and that Weird brother Would always smile and Scoop us extra. Remember that alley behind My house where you Could avoid the gang Members, if you were Willing to risk Walking by that pitbull Who had dug a hole Beneath his fence Big enough to shoot His head out sideways Like a hungry hippo And try to drag you Screaming into His yard? You remember The parking lot At Stapleton airport Where the snow plows Would dump all the snow? Snow for miles, snow Miles high, filthy beautiful Castles of snow that you Could explore for hours. Adventure, a thick smoke In our lungs. Park Hill, I am one Of your sons. You are that black pitbull. In my alley. Silent as a kitten. Until the right moment When you lunge And rattle the fence Like thunder, Jaws wide, shooting Beneath the fence, Whining for someone To chew. I guess somebody Loves you because Somebody kept feeding you. I ran from you. And I love you And I hate you. And I love you. And I want to forget you And remember you. And I guess I’m a little Proud that I survived you. And you’re the reason I still can’t wear red. I feel like I’ll get shot. And I want to go Back in time and visit Myself, that Park Hill boy In all his gangly Nappy-headed insecurity, That screechy voice that Makes me sick whenever I hear it on video. That skin that wasn’t Black enough to be black. And definitely not white. That kid who was Always out of joint. Kind of hanging there, limp. I want to scoop him Up and tell him. And D Too. Like a big brother Who made it out, and comes Back with a sweet ride, And big, booming stories Of the big wide world, And gifts, and secret Handshakes and Big hands cradling Your knotty head, And a grin that stares Into your eyes And knows you. And somehow Loves you. And really does. For some insane, Incomprehensible Reason. And I want to tell them: You guys are not worthless. Look at me. Look at me. There’s more. Park Hill isn’t the world. There are places out there That don’t eat you alive. I’m serious. You are precious. Park Hill doesn’t know any better. Pitbulls make for bad Nursemaids. It was a setup From the start. Pitbulls bite you, not Because they hate you, Not because something’s Wrong with you. They bite Because they are pitbulls. And that’s what pitbulls do. You don’t have to hate The Pitbull. But you don’t have to Put your arm in its Mouth, either. Hear me? And it’s OK for you to Hug your homies and tell them You love them. I know, I know. You’re going to Pretend I never said that Punk-ass stuff, but it’s true. I love you. Say it with me. You love each other. And that’s a gift. You can say things Like that. You have no idea What’s possible. You can dream, homies. The world is big, and She bites sometimes. She bites hard. But, There’s more. You are loved. I don’t know what to say To you, now that you’re Here in my arms. It’s OK to cry. You can be Who you are. Breathe Out. There are different ways To be strong. Not just The hard-edged Bloody-fisted toughness That Park Hill smiles upon. Compassion is stronger. Love is stronger. Your gentleness that Feels like such a Curse that you would Rip it out of your chest If you could, It’s a gift. There’s a Place for it. You are not defective. I know this sounds Like punk-ass nonsense. I know. I know. And Tomorrow there will be A bully who wants to Punch your face, and This will sound irrelevant To the point of absurdity. Just let this in a little. Like a seed. Like an Echo of a song Somewhere. A sweetness that you Are brave enough To long for. You are more than What you see around you. I promise you. I never got tattoos. This poem is my tattoo. On the inside. Here’s the design: The liquor store, And D grinning. And A vicious black Pitbull. A Nintendo Game controller. A scowling traffic cone. A spiderman face. A bicycle with Angel’s wings. All these images Entwined in the vapor From a bowl of steaming Apple cobbler, with this Recipe beneath: Two parts fear, Two parts longing, One part joy. I went back to you, My little corner of Park Hill, years ago. Maybe to drink Memories like a Bitter forty ounce. To walk your cracked Streets as a man. I went back to you, Park Hill, And you weren’t there anymore. A bunch of white people Now. Luxury apartments And coffee shops nearby. I didn’t even get to Watch you die. To give my gritty eulogy. To tell your fading eyes, I forgive you. To make My peace with your Broken teeth. To tell you I would not Trade your scars For all the money In the world. To kiss you In the end. I think I’m strong enough To do that now. I went back to you, Park Hill, And you weren’t there anymore. Just what’s left inside of me.
